Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (2 page)

Amelia and Elizabeth stared at her with such expressions of disbelief that Grace actually laughed and added, “I do not lie! I swear! He has a devilish sense of humor.”

Amelia knew that Grace meant well, but somehow this failed to reassure her. It wasn’t that she was jealous. She was quite certain she was not in love with Wyndham. How could she be? She rarely had occasion to exchange more than two words with the man. Still, it was rather unsettling that Grace Eversleigh had come to know him so well.

And she could not tell this to Elizabeth, in whom she usually confided everything. Elizabeth and Grace had been fast friends since they’d met at the age of six. Elizabeth would tell her that she was being silly. Or she’d give her one of those dreadful looks that were meant to be sympathetic but instead came out as pitying.

Amelia seemed to be on the receiving end of many such glances these days. Usually whenever the topic of marriage arose. Had she been a betting woman (which she actually thought she might be, should she ever be given the opportunity to try), she would have wagered that she had received sym-pitying looks from at least half the young ladies of the ton. And all of their mothers.

“We shall make it our mission for the autumn,”

Grace suddenly announced, her eyes sparkling with intent. “Amelia and Wyndham shall finally become acquainted.”

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“Grace, don’t,
please
. . . ” Amelia said, flushing.

Good Lord, how mortifying. To be a
project
.

“You are going to have to get to know him eventually,” Elizabeth said.

“Not really,” was Amelia’s wry reply. “How many rooms are there at Belgrave? Two hundred?”

“Seventy-three,” Grace murmured.

“I could go weeks without seeing him,” Amelia responded. “Years.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” her sister said. “Why don’t you come with me to Belgrave tomorrow? I devised an excuse about Mama needing to return some of the dowager’s books so that I might visit with Grace.”

Grace turned to Elizabeth with mild surprise. “Did your mother borrow books from the dowager?”

“She did, actually,” Elizabeth replied, then added de-murely, “at my request.”

Amelia raised her brows. “Mother is not much of a reader.”

“I couldn’t very well borrow a pianoforte,” Elizabeth retorted.

It was Amelia’s opinion that their mother wasn’t much of a musician, either, but there seemed little reason to point it out, and besides, the conversation had been brought to an abrupt halt.

He
had arrived.

Amelia might have had her back to the door, but she knew precisely the moment Thomas Cavendish walked into the assembly hall, because, drat it all, she had
done
this before.

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

9

Now was the hush.

And now—she counted to five; she’d long since learned that dukes required more than the average three seconds of hush—were the whispers.

And now Elizabeth was jabbing her in the ribs, as if she needed the alert.

And now—oh, she could see it all in her head—the crowds were doing their Red Sea imitation, and here strode the duke, his shoulders broad, his steps pur-poseful and proud, and here he was, almost, almost, almost—

“Lady Amelia.”

She composed her face. She turned around. “Your grace,” she said, with the blank smile she knew was required of her.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You look lovely this evening.”

He said that every time.

Amelia murmured her thanks and then waited patiently while he complimented her sister, then said to Grace, “I see my grandmother has allowed you out of her clutches for the evening.”

“Yes,” Grace said with a happy sigh, “isn’t it lovely?”

He smiled, and Amelia noted it was not the same sort of public-face smile he gave her. It was, she realized, a smile of friendship.

“You are nothing less than a saint, Miss Eversleigh,”

he said.

Amelia looked to the duke, and then to Grace, and wondered—
What was he thinking?
It was not as if 10 Julia

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Grace had any choice in the matter. If he really thought Grace was a saint, he ought to set her up with a dowry and find her a husband so she did not have to spend the rest of her life waiting hand and foot upon his grandmother.

But of course she did not say that. Because no one said such things to a duke.

“Grace tells us that you plan to rusticate in the country for several months,” Elizabeth said.

Amelia wanted to kick her. The implication had to be that if he had time to remain in the country, he must have time to finally marry her sister.

And indeed, the duke’s eyes held a vaguely ironic expression as he murmured, “I do.”

“I shall be quite busy until November at the earliest,”

Amelia blurted out, because it was suddenly imperative that he realize that she was not spending her days sitting by her window, pecking at needlework as she pined for his arrival.

“Shall you?” he murmured.

She straightened her shoulders. “I shall.”

His eyes, which were a rather legendary shade of blue, narrowed a bit. In humor, not in anger, which was probably all the worse. He was
laughing
at her. Amelia did not know why it had taken her so long to realize this. All these years she’d thought he was merely ignoring her—

Oh, dear Lord
.

“Lady Amelia,” he said, the slight nod of his head as much of a bow as he must have felt compelled to make,

“would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

11

Elizabeth and Grace turned to her, both of them smiling serenely with expectation. They had played out this scene before, all of them. And they all knew how it was meant to unfold.

Especially Amelia.

“No,” she said, before she could think the better of it.

He blinked. “No?”

“No, thank you, I should say.” And she smiled pret-tily, because she did like to be polite.

He looked stunned. “You don’t wish to dance?”

“Not tonight, I don’t think, no.” Amelia stole a glance at her sister and Grace. They looked aghast.

Amelia felt
wonderful
.

She felt like herself, which was something she was never allowed to feel in his presence. Or in the anticipa-tion of his presence. Or the aftermath.

It was always about
him
. Wyndham this and Wyndham that, and oh how
lucky
she was to have snagged the most handsome duke in the land without even having to lift a finger.

The one time she allowed her rather dry humor to rise to the fore, and said, “Well, of course I had to lift my little baby rattle,” she’d been rewarded with two blank stares and one mutter of “ungrateful chit.”

That had been Jacinda Lennox’s mother, three weeks before Jacinda had received her shower of marriage proposals.

So Amelia generally kept her mouth shut and did what was expected of her. But now . . .

Well, this wasn’t London, and her mother wasn’t watching, and she was just so
sick
of the way he kept 12 Julia

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her on a leash. Really, she could have found someone else by now. She could have had fun. She could have kissed a man.

Oh, very well, not
that
. She wasn’t an idiot, and she did value her reputation. But she might have imagined it, which she’d certainly never bothered to do before.

And then, because she had no idea when she might feel so reckless again, she smiled up at her future husband and said, “But you should dance, if you wish it.

I’m sure there are many ladies who would be happy to partner you.”

“But I wish to dance with you,” he ground out.

“Perhaps another time,” Amelia said. She gave him her sunniest smile. “Ta!”

And she walked away.

She walked away
.

She wanted to skip. In fact, she did. But only once she’d turned the corner.

Thomas Cavendish liked to think himself a reasonable man, especially since his lofty position as the seventh Duke of Wyndham would have allowed him any number of unreasonable demands. He could have gone stark raving mad, dressed all in pink, and declared the world a triangle, and the ton would still have bowed and scraped and hung on his every word.

His own father, the sixth Duke of Wyndham, had not gone stark raving mad, nor had he dressed all in pink or declared the world a triangle, but he had
certainly
been a most unreasonable man. It was for Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

13

that reason that Thomas most prided himself upon the evenness of his temper, the sanctity of his word, and, although he did not choose to reveal this side of his personality to many, his ability to find humor in the absurd.

And this was definitely absurd.

But as news of Lady Amelia’s departure from the assembly spread through the hall, and head after head swiveled in his direction, Thomas began to realize that the line between humor and fury was not so very much more substantial than the edge of a knife.

And twice as sharp.

Lady Elizabeth was gazing upon him with a fair dose of horror, as if he might turn into an ogre and tear someone from limb to limb. And Grace—drat the little minx—looked as if she might burst out laughing at any moment.

“Don’t,” he warned her.

She complied, but barely, so he turned to Lady Elizabeth and asked, “Shall I fetch her?”

She stared at him mutely.

“Your sister,” he clarified.

Still nothing. Good Lord, were they even educating females these days?

“The Lady Amelia,” he said, with extra enunciation.

“My affianced bride. The one who just gave me the cut direct.”

“I wouldn’t call it
direct
,” Elizabeth finally choked out.

He stared at her for a moment longer than was comfortable (for her; he was perfectly at ease with it), then 14 Julia

Quinn

turned to Grace, who was, he had long since realized, one of the only people in the world upon whom he might rely for complete honesty.

“Shall I fetch her?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes shining with mischief.

“Do.”

His brows rose a fraction of an inch as he pondered where the dratted female might have gone off to. She couldn’t actually leave the assembly; the front doors spilled right onto the main street in Stamford—

certainly not an appropriate spot for an unescorted female. In the back there was a small garden. Thomas had never had occasion to inspect it personally, but he was told that many a marriage had been proposed in its leafy confines.

Proposed
being something of a euphemism. Most proposals occurred in a rather more complete state of attire than those that came about in the back garden of the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly Hall.

But Thomas didn’t much worry about being caught alone with Lady Amelia Willoughby. He was already shackled to the chit, wasn’t he? And he could not put off the wedding very much longer. He had informed her parents that they would wait until she was one-and-twenty, and surely she had to reach that age soon.

If she hadn’t already.

“My options appear to be thus,” he murmured. “I could fetch my lovely betrothed, drag her back for a dance, and demonstrate to the assembled multitudes that I have her clearly under my thumb.”

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

15

Grace stared at him with amusement. Elizabeth looked somewhat green.

“But then it would look as if I cared,” he continued.

“Don’t you?” Grace asked.

He thought about this. His pride
was
pricked, that was true, but more than anything he was amused. “Not so very much,” he answered, and then, because Elizabeth was her sister, he added, “Pardon.”

She nodded weakly.

“On the other hand,” he said, “I could simply remain here. Refuse to make a scene.”

“Oh, I think the scene was already made,” Grace murmured, giving him an arch look.

Which he returned in kind. “You’re lucky that you’re the only thing that makes my grandmother tolerable.”

Grace turned to Elizabeth. “I am apparently unsack-able.”

“Much as I’ve been tempted,” Thomas added.

Which they both knew was untrue. Thomas would have laid himself prostrate at her feet if necessary, just to get her to remain in his grandmother’s employ.

Luckily for him, Grace showed no inclination to leave.

Still, he would have done it. And tripled her salary at the same time. Every minute Grace spent in his grandmother’s company was a minute he didn’t have to, and truly, one could not put a price on something such as that.

But that was not the matter at hand. His grandmother was safely ensconced in the next room with her band of 16 Julia

Quinn

cronies, and he had every intention of being in and out of the assembly without their having to share a single word of conversation.

His fiancée, however, was another story entirely.

“I do believe I shall allow her her moment of tri-umph,” he said, coming to this decision as the words crossed his lips. He felt no need to demonstrate his authority—really, could there be any question of it?—

and he did not particularly relish the idea that the good people of Lincolnshire might imagine he was besotted with his fiancée.

Thomas did not
do
infatuation.

“That’s very generous of you, I must say,” Grace remarked, her smile most irritating.

He shrugged. Barely. “I’m a generous sort of man.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and he thought he heard her breathe, but other than that, she remained mute.

A wordless female. Maybe he should marry
that
one.

“Do you depart, then?” Grace asked.

“Are you trying to be rid of me?”

“Not at all. You know I always delight in your presence.”

He would have returned her sarcasm in kind, but before he could do so, he spied a head—or rather, a part of a head—peeking out from behind the curtain that separated the assembly hall and the side corridor.

Lady Amelia. She had not gone so far afield after all.